


only for you

by winchesters



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, dumb french hunks, enjolras is submissive as heck for some reason, very ooc enjolras i think
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-06 10:15:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1105612
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchesters/pseuds/winchesters
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Grantaire feels inadequate. Enjolras assures him that he is not.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> Well, that was fun to write. Please comment/kudos/whatever.

  


  
Grantaire worships from afar. He may as well lust after the sun, some lonely moon seeking a beam pitiful radiance from the other side of a planet. He is a celestial body trapped in orbit: he cannot stray from his path lest he be forced out into even darker and colder skies. Apollo. Radiant Apollo, bringer of light, the god of song. Grantaire's wine-soaked haze drops a gauzy curtain over the world, dampens all but most brilliant of lights. And tonight, like all nights, there is but one lantern in the darkness. 

"Citizens," says Enjolras, "the night is black and full of misery, but the dawn approaches! We shall not forgo justice for comfort! No one man ushers in a new era; I look to you, my friends, to lead the army of the People." 

More a Roman than any Frenchman I ever knew, Grantaire thinks. Alexander, perhaps, leading his troops across the mountains? The prodigal son, the brilliant warrior favored by the gods. He imagines Enjolras draped in white, sun-kissed, holding audience with the court of Mount Olympus. Grantaire's head swims. His fingers move, clumsily, to capture some Classical figure on the rough brown paper; the charcoal snaps in his fingers. 

"My friend," says Combeferre, "I'm afraid you will be left alone." His voice is gentle, absent of the derisive quality that Enjolras favors when speaking to Grantaire. There is a pair of hands soft on his shoulder, propelling him towards the door of the Musain. Combeferre has always been kind without needing to. 

"A tragedy," Grantaire half-slurs, "that I should lack decent company." 

Combeferre gives him a sad smile and a gentle pat on the back. 

"Goodnight, citizen Grantaire." 

He moves away down the street, his figure soon swallowed by the patchwork of lamplight and shadow. Grantaire takes a few aimless steps in one direction, then wheels unevenly and heads towards the river. He is not so drunk as to be unaware of his surroundings: the trees threaded through with silver, the cobbles gleaming in the murky moonlight. An urchin child approaches him, barefoot despite the spring chill.

"A few sous for a boy who ain't eaten today?" He sticks a grubby hand out, and as he draws into the weak lamplight Grantaire sees that he is missing several teeth. He resembles Gavroche, the gamin who follows Courferyac like a tame pup, and Grantaire's pity is stirred. As he searches his pockets for a handful of coins, he feels the familiar press of a knife between his ribs. 

"Pay up, or I'll put this through your poor liver." 

The voice is low, hoarse, with an almost lyrical lilt. The gamin has disappeared–a ploy to distract the victim while the robber moved in. Grantaire laughs at the absurdity of being robbed by the 'brothers' that Enjolras so dearly elevates. 

"My dearest monsieur," says Grantaire grandly. "I'm afraid I haven't a sous to my name! Women and wine are not cheap." 

The knife sharpens against his ribs. 

"I could stick you now and leave you bleeding," the boy behind him begins, and then there is someone shouting and a blinding flash of pain sends Grantaire tumbling limply to the cobbles. The sound of footsteps, then, and another shout. 

"Citizen!" 

Good Lord above, Grantaire thinks, the side of his face pressed the cold stones. It's not awful down in the gutter: an icy wind has swept the heavens clear and starry blue, like the ceiling of a church. And the golden angel is upon him, that burnished halo eclipsing the distant cold moon. Hands along his sides, running across the rumpled fabric of his waistcoat. 

“Grantaire!” Enjolras nearly cries his name. “I thought you to be stabbed!” 

Grantaire sits up, Enjolras’ hands at his shoulder and back. 

“They wanted money,” he says, almost laughing. “I had none to give, so our dear brothers fled into the night.” 

Enjolras helps Grantaire to his feet. 

“So it would seem.” 

He pauses, eyes raking Grantaire’s face. Then Enjolras lifts a hand, gentle, to his lip.

“You are bleeding, Grantaire.” 

There is blood, hot, tasting of iron, between his teeth. _I must have been struck harder than I thought_. 

“Come with me,” Enjolras commands, helping Grantaire along the pavement. “My flat is just across the way. Shall I call Joly?”

“No,” Grantaire says, the young medical student is full of nervous energy and likely pre-occupied with his two voracious lovers at present. 

They reach a flight of narrow steps and Grantaire tries to shake Enjolras off but the other man persists, slinging an arm around Grantaire’s shoulders as if helping a wounded soldier from the battlefield. The hall is narrow and smells of broiling cabbage and sour laundry, but the building is nicer than the hovel Grantaire calls home, and he finds himself deposited inside Enjolras’ quarters without much ado. He sinks into a ladder-backed wooden chair, his face smarting. He can feel his right eye swelling–by morning it will be bruised blue and purple, the color of a winter sunset. 

Enjolras approaches with a wet cloth and kneels before him, raises the strip of fabric to wipe away the congealing blood. His movements are gentle, full of intent–something he’s learned from Joly? He certainly has none of the medical student’s sharp movements...Combeferre, perhaps? 

“The great leader, on his knees before a drunk,” Grantaire says, his voice is grating. “What would the people say?”

Enjolras raises his head. His eyes are the same cerulean of the sky following the dawn. 

“Is it not my duty to mend the broken?” 

He raises his head, that cruel, handsome face haloed by golden curls. 

“Is it not my duty to sooth the suffering, heal the wounded?” 

His fingers fall away from Grantaire’s mouth, and suddenly Enjolras is close, so close, and Grantaire can smell the musk and smoke of the Musain and the icy Paris wind on him. And then their lips are pressed together, Enjolras mouthing gently at Grantaire’s bloody lip. Grantaire bows his head to kiss Enjolras fully, drinking him in like bitter absinthe. 

“God above,” Grantaire breathes as Enjolras presses hot kisses to his jaw–and how the hell does chaste, virginal Enjolras even know how to _do_ this kind of thing? It seems entirely improbable that the marble statue himself would ever be found kneeling between the legs of the most pathetic cynic in Paris, let alone trailing hot-mouthed kisses across his neck. 

And then Enjolras is sliding a hand into Grantaire’s breeches, running his fingers across Grantaire’s stomach, and those lightening-blue eyes are hooded with lust. And gods, Grantaire is hard in his breeches, and he is certain that he will spend himself before Enjolras even _touches_ him, but he stills the other man’s hand. He is consumed with a terrible, terrible guilt, a feeling so dark and awful that it is tearing at his heart–even though the pit of his stomach is still pooling hot with lust. 

“Do you not desire me?” Enjolras queries, the lightness in his voice betraying the dark lust blooming in his eyes. 

“I cannot debase you,” Grantaire groans at him, “I am lowly and stupid and mortal and you are–you are _godly–”_

Enjolras slides his hand away from Grantaire’s, continues tracing lower and lower until he reaches Grantaire’s cock. He draws it out of his breeches, his eyes never slipping from Grantaire’s. 

“You are not lowly,” he says, rubbing his thumb over the head of Grantaire’s cock, eliciting a low moan from the other man. 

“You are not stupid.” Enjolras drops his hand lower, sliding down over the shaft. Grantaire moans again, louder this time–he doesn’t care if the walls are thin and the neighbors will wonder–and bucks up into Enjolras’ hand. 

“You, citizen Grantaire, are wholly and wonderfully mortal.” He slides up and down, grazing his thumb over the head of Grantaire’s cock, and Grantaire bucks his hips up, seeking _more_ and Enjolras catches his mouth in a kiss. 

“Dear God above,” Grantaire breathes against Enjolras’ mouth, and then he’s coming, his hips bucking up violently as Enjolras’ name falls from his lips in a wrecked sob. Limp with pleasure, his lust sated, he sags onto Enjolras’ shoulder. 

Enjolras slides between Grantaire’s spread legs, tucking him back into his breeches, and smooths the rucked-up shirt over his smooth stomach. He reaches up, brushing against Grantaire’s flushed cheek, and presses a kiss to his open mouth. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Grantaire murmurs, threading his fingers through Enjolras’ golden hair. “So beautiful.” 

Enjolras leans softly against Grantaire’s chest, and Grantaire can feel his heart fluttering beneath a cage of flesh and bone and Enjolras is tracing his fingers over Grantaire’s thighs and God above this must be some kind of paradise. 

Grantaire can tell, distantly, through his haze of pleasure, that Enjolras is hard in his breeches, and he rises slowly, pulling the other man up with him. He twines one of his hands with Enjolras’, pulls him in the general direction of his narrow bed–the man lives like a monk, of course, forgoing any semblance of comfort in order to placate his own proletariat mask–and says,

“Lay with me, Apollo.” 

And the benevolent grounded god twists his lips upwards, blue eyes hooded, skin golden with lamplight.

“As you wish.” 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> okay so this is shoddily written, I apologize. just go with it, yeah? :)

Grantaire collapses onto Enjolras' thin cot, pulling the other man down on top of him. The wooden frame gives a creak of protest, the rope trundle groaning a little. Grantaire brings his hand up to brush Enjolras' bowed lips, slick and red, parting slightly to accept the calloused edge of his finger. His breath plays hotly over Grantaire's knuckles; the artist bites back a gasp of pleasure. Enjolras rocks his hips forwards, and God he's harder than ever, harder than Grantaire was. 

"Dear Lord," Grantaire breathes, drawing himself up to kiss those perfect lips. "You are wanton, aren't you?"

Enjolras cants his hips forwards again, this time with a muffled whine. He has straddled Grantaire, his knees squeezing Grantaire's hips, and he keeps running his damn hands over Grantaire's chest and stomach: those long fingers feel like fire tracing his flesh. Grantaire lets Enjolras wear himself out a little like this: rutting against him, his cock pressed hard and leaking against his stomach, letting little animal-like cries slip out during moments of contact. 

When Enjolras begins mewling softly, blue eyes hooded with lust, lips parted in a sultry, desperate plea, Grantaire slowly unlaces his breeches and takes him in hand. Enjolras' cock is already slick from sweat and pre-cum, he whimpers loudly when Grantaire draws his fingers over the leaking head. 

"Look at you," Grantaire says quietly, awed, "crying out for me. Begging for me. You're beautiful like this." 

Enjolras bites down on his lower lip, his fingers fisting in the worn material of Grantaire's shirt. Grantaire draws his hand quickly up and down Enjolras' cock, eliciting a series of strangled cries and groans from the golden-haired boy. 

"Don't stop," Enjolras begs, his voice cracking as he fucks Grantaire's fist. "Please, don't stop." 

Grantaire thumbs over the head of Enjolras' cock, then drops back down to stroke him harder. 

"Come for me," he says, unaware of where his voice has gained such a rough edge. "Come for me, Enjolras." 

And Enjolras does, with his head thrown back, mouth open in ecstasy, as he comes into Grantaire's fist with a debauched cry. 

He collapses, weak-limbed onto Grantaire's chest, fingers stroking the other boy's bloodied lip. Grantaire cleans his hand on his discarded vest and buries his face in Enjolras' sweat-dampened neck. 

"Enjolras," he murmurs. 

"Yes, citizen Grantaire?"

"You are truly sent from God above." 

Enjolras lifts his head to give Grantaire a hooded stare, then lets his free hand wander down to palm at Grantaire's cock through his breeches.

"I would say the same of you, Grantaire, but it would seem that it were not so." 

Grantaire moans and arches up into Enjolras' touch.

"Must I remind you again of your wonderful mortality?"

Grantaire kisses him hard, tangling his fingers in that perfect hair.

"Monsieur Enjolras, I think you must."


End file.
